


The Heralds of SHIELD

by valantha



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Valdemar Series - Mercedes Lackey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Anti-Ward, BAMF Melinda May, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Gen, More cameos than you can shake a stick at, More like adversaries to friends to more than friends, Skye is Gifted, Team as Family, Valdemar AU, Ward is the villain, heralds au, normal Phil Coulson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-10-08 00:36:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 12,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10373778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valantha/pseuds/valantha
Summary: Phil was a simple scribe before Peggy Chose him.Melinda is the Collegiums' Weaponsmaster. It's her duty to prepare Herald Trainees for their future carrying the Queen's word across Valdemar, resolving disputes, and dealing with conflicts.Skye is a newly-Chosen street urchin with a powerful, rogue Fetching Gift.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the lovely ReaverBait, who won me in the Fandom Trumps Hate auction who asked for an Agents of Shield and Valdemar crossover.
> 
> Valdemar is a nation in a world created by Mercedes Lackey. Heralds support the Queen (or King) of Valdemar in many roles and are Chosen by Companions. Companions look like white horses but are far, far more and can communicate telepathically with their Herald and other Companions. Many Heralds have Gifts.

Phil trudged across the muddy Collegium yard, past the palace gardens. Spring had come early to Valdemar’s capital and with it thawing snow and drenching spring rains.

: _It could be worse,:_ Peggy, his Companion, said _:It could be raining right now.:_

_Or,_ he thought back at her, _Companions could be just as neat as horses and I would need to watch my step._

The wordless disgust she sent back at him made him chuckle.

His laughter died in his throat as he turned the corner and saw the salle. He was a simple accountant, a scribe, or at least he was before Peggy Chose him. He could easily handle the role of Chronicler for the Heralds but everything else that was expected of him as Herald was a complete mystery: proficiency with weapons, courtly graces, even the use of Gifts he never knew he had.

Of course it was the first of these that filled him with the most misapprehension and was the reason he was heading –- or rather stopped on the path to -– Melinda’s salle. Dean Victoria told him in no uncertain terms that Chronicler’s Second or no, someday he would need to defend himself and he could no longer avoid weapons training.

With a burst of mental encouragement from Peggy he walked the remaining distance to the sale door. After another, briefer pause, he opened the door and stepped into the surprisingly warm and well-lit salle.

Weaponsmaster Melinda looked up from a pile of padded training armor she was mending, her face a blank mask, “Finally arrived, have you?”

Phil nodded taking note of her strange syntax. Rumors among the Herald Trainees claimed that she was from far away. Some rumors claimed the far west, past Lake Evendim, others the far east, from strange Iftel or even further. It didn’t much matter to Phil, having been Haven-born and Haven-bred.

“Yes,” he replied simply.

She set down the armor and strode toward him. She moved with the restrained grace like which he’d only read about in archives pertaining to sleek mountain cats, or strange Pelagir beasts.

As she studied him, he could feel his balls creep up into his body. It felt like she was sizing him up to see if he was even worth eating.

“These things,” she asked, tapping her temples where the sidepieces of his glasses rested, “Need them do you?”

“Yes, I’m nearly blind without them,” Phil replied.

Melinda hummed thoughtfully. “Outside we will go. The obstacle course you will run. What I have to work with, I will see.”

Phil silenced his groan. Between his natural clumsiness, the fact that his glasses slid down while he was only riding Peggy, the muddy conditions, and the fact that he was rather out of shape, he was not going to make a good showing _and_ was going to get rather dirty in the process.

* * *

Phil groaned as he slipped into the warm bath back in the Trainee dorm. As expected, he had ended up cold, muddy and bruised. He lost his glasses twice, slipping and falling over the obstacle course, and had run head first into a climbing wall once.

What he hadn’t expected was how heartless Weaponsmaster Melinda was. She stood silent, watching him fail miserably at the obstacle course, not moving a muscle even to help him find his glasses. And then, once he had staggered across the finish line she directed him (muddy head-to-toe and shivering) back inside to show her his lack of skill with a wooden short sword by setting him against a quintain. After half a candlemark she either grew bored watching him get beaten by a wooden dummy or took pity on him. If Phil were a betting man he’d place his money on the first.

Phil shook his head, shifting his focus on letting the painfully warm water soak into every nook and cranny. The water wasn’t actually all that warm, he knew better than to soak practically frozen fingers and toes in actually hot water, but it was certainly warm enough.

He grabbed a handful of soft soap from a dish beside the tub and started scrubbing. He shuddered at how filthy every accessible finger-length of him was. His scalp was more mud than hair, though he couldn’t entirely blame Melinda for that, and even his calves were dirty above where his socks were, indicating his trouser had ridden up at least once.

After he was a clean as he thought he could get, he pulled the plug and watched the disgusting brown water drain from the tub. When it was empty he washed the remaining muck out and re-filled the tub with warmer water. The hot water tap and water boilers were downright magical and he thanked the long-ago Artificer who designed and built them as well as the long-ago King or Queen who paid for them. They certainly were a major perk for being Chosen. Before, when he was a scribe, he’d have to haul the hot water up from the first floor kitchen to the room he was renting and would have been content with a not-cold bath once a week.

He allowed himself to luxuriate in the warm water for longer before scrubbing down a second time. This time he felt properly clean. This time the drained water was a proper color.

He dried off and paused before the mirror. His body was speckled with the faint red blotches that foretold bruises to come. _Great._

He tossed the towel into the bin and donned a fresh set of Greys.

When Phil returned to his room he found a small tin sitting on his desk. He opened it and caught a whiff of a strongly astringent, herbal mixture. On the side it read Bruise Balm. _Great!_

He shucked off his fresh Greys and applied the balm to every tender patch. Halfway through his fingers grew numb so he knew it had to be the good stuff. It was only after he was done tending himself and was lying on his bed willing the balm to work did he stop and consider which of his fellow Trainees was so kind and presentient to have given him the balm.

Mack was kind, but hadn’t known Dean Victoria sent him to the salle. Lance had known, Phil had complained over breakfast, but wasn’t that thoughtful. It must have been Triplett. He was the only one at breakfast who was that thoughtful _and_ ready access to the Healer’s Collegium. Triplett’s mother was the Chief Healer. His father and grandfather had been Heralds.


	2. Chapter 2

Phil’s Herald training continued apace. He’d tested out of Valdemar history and was being taught a special, expedited course in Valdemar law by Dean Victoria herself. He was taking court etiquette with the last-year trainees.

The only drawback was weapons training with Melinda. There, he was in a special remedial course with a 7-year-old Herald Trainee and a blind Healer Trainee. To say this didn’t hurt his ego would be a lie, but it was his own ineptitude that embarrassed him the most.

He was conflicted over the fact that Melinda was patient and kind with the other trainees and was nothing but brusque and cold-hearted with him. On one hand he didn’t want to be coddled like a 7 year old, but on the other it wouldn’t hurt to hear an encouraging word every once in a while!

One-and-a-half moons after Phil started training with Melinda, the training session was unexpected interrupted.

Dean Victoria stormed into the salle dragging an urchin of maybe 12 years old, though with near-constant starvation and neglect, she could have been much older. She had the semi-dazed look of the newly-Chosen, but why Dean Victoria had brought her directly to the salle without letting the poor girl wash up, change into Greys, or even de-louse her was a mystery. But not for long.

“Trainee Phil, thank goodness,” Dean Victoria said. “All the other powerful Fetchers are on circuit or visiting their families. Skye here just had her Gift awaken in a powerful way and Dugan can only do so much to control it.”

Phil stole one second to take a deep breath before turning to the girl to teach her the basics of control he had only learned two moons ago himself.

“Skye?” he said.

The girl nodded slightly and now Phil could see the terror in her eyes masked by the muzzy shock.

“Lets sit down in this corner, all right?”

She nodded again and effortlessly collapsed at the indicated location. With more exertion due to his middle-aged joints, he joined her.

“Close your eyes,” he said, following his own instructions.

“Slowly take a deep breath and while you’re inhaling I want you to feel the smooth wooden planks beneath your rump,” Phil said calmly, soothingly. “While you hold the air within yourself, Melinda and the others will begin putting away all the edged weapons. Slowly exhale and feel the warming dirt below the floor.”

“Do you feel the earth?” he asked.

She nodded.

“What do you feel?”

“Cold?”

“Good. Breathe and with the exhale focus on the earth: the temperature, the texture, the smell. Do you smell the earth?”

She nodded.

“Good. What does it smell like?”

“A loaf o’ bread, still hot an’ steamy.”

“Good. Focus on that smell and all the other senses of the earth. With each exhale I want you to sink lower and lower into the earth.”

Phil opened his eyes. The two other trainees had vanished and Melinda was locking the wardrobe that held the edged weapons. Good.

“This is what being grounded feels like. From now on you need to keep a little bit of your mind down here, with the cool, gritty earth that smells like fresh baked bread.”

“Now inhale and feel the cool air inflate your lungs, pushing your chest out. Focus on the feel of your chest while you hold the breath. And exhale, touching the earth, feeling it’s coolness.”

“Inhale and feel your heart thrum, beating out the rhythm of your life. Hold your breath for three heartbeats focusing on the warmth of your heart. Good. Now exhale and reach down to the earth.”

“Inhale and with this breath slowly expand the warmth from your heart to your lungs as well. Exhale and reach down to the earth.”

“Inhale and expand the warmth to your whole chest: your beating heart, your inflating lungs, the skin on your rising chest, your firm spine. Hold and take note of any discomfort. Hold the itch or prickle in your mind and exhale. Push the discomfort into the ground. Very good. You’re doing great Skye.”

“And inhale, expanding the warmth downward to your rumbly stomach. Hold and take note of any discomfort. Do you have to pee? Does your stomach want to eat itself? Exhale and ground.”

Phil opened his eyes and examined Skye. She seemed to be settling into the exercise. However, to his surprise Melinda hadn’t left the salle and was watching him and Skye intently. Phil sat up straighter. _Who was she to try to distract him from his duty!_

“Inhale and push the warmth upward to your shoulders. Are they sore? What about your back? Exhale and push these distractions into the ground.”

“Inhale and feel the warmth engulf your whole core body from heart to spine, shoulders to buttocks. Exhale and ground.”

“Inhale and push the warmth upward, up your neck to your head, face, and scalp. Hold and take note of them. Does your neck hurt? Does your nose itch? Exhale and push these distractions into the ground. Good job Skye. You can do this.”

“Inhale and push the warmth downward to your thighs, calf, ankles, and toes. Hold and take note of them. Who is sore? Who is cold? Exhale and push these distractions into the ground.”

“Inhale and push the warmth upward to your arms and hands. Hold and take note of them. Exhale and ground.”

“Inhale and feel the warmth dance around your whole body toes to ears, finger tips to heart. On this next exhale open your eyes. And exhale, good. What do you see?”

“A golden shimmer around my whole body.”

“Very good. This is what being centered feels like. That golden shimmer is your life force, the boundary of what makes you, you. Now take a look at me. What do you see now?”

“You have a bluish shimmer around you. But it’s less shimmery, more steady.”

“Very good. Mine is steady because I’m shielding, and you’re actually seeing my shield a finger’s width from my skin. Next time I’ll teach you how to shield, but I think you’ve had enough for now.”

“The next time you fill scared or angry, reach into the earth and feel the warmth spread from your heart to the tip of your body and that should stop you from tossing things about with your mind unless you want them too. Dugan can help you remember this too.”

Skye leaped from the floor and almost tackled him with a hug.

He was stunned at first, but wrapped his arms around the waif and returned her hug. Over her all-to-thin shoulder he saw Melinda grimace. If he didn’t know her, he’d even suppose she was smiling, but that was impossible, she was utterly heartless.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Introducing Grant Ward as the villain of this little tale.

_Hhugh click, clack, click, clack. Huuh click, clack, click, clack._

Melinda walked through her salle, listening to the rhythmic sound of Phil working through a staff exercise. She was pleasantly surprised by his progress. Of course he’d never be an expert, but he would soon reach the level of “barely competent/not a huge embarrassment.”

When he first stepped into her salle she thought he’d always be nothing more than a huge embarrassment, and, more importantly, so did he. She’d needed to channel her strictest, harshest taskmaster self in order to push him hard enough to overcome his own reluctance.

She didn’t like channeling Waeponsmaster Ironheart, but Phil was destined for the field, like every Herald Trainee and she’d do him no favors to coddle him during training only to have the first bandit he comes across kill him for the contents of his saddlebags.

It was her duty as Weaponsmaster to prepare children and non-children alike for their future, like it or not.

Melinda turned her attention to another of her hodge-podge trainees, one that didn’t require such a firm touch. Akela was a Healer Trainee who would likely spend the rest of _her_ days in the Healers’ Collegium or another large Healers’ sanctuary. She had remarkable talents with magical healing. Even if she wasn’t blind, her skills would be best used as such sanctuaries where the hard-to-treat sick and injured traveled to the Healers instead of the other way around. But she was blind.

Akela had come to Melinda against the recommendations of her Dean, Healer Andrew, because she didn’t want to be helpless forever.

Melinda helped her hone her other senses, even her Healer’s sixth sense, to “see” the world around her. Akela was not half bad with her quarterstaff-cum-walking stick and any bandit intending to prey on a poor blind Healer would get exactly what he was asking for.

Akela would be getting her Greens soon and be too busy for further training. And Hannah had just “graduated” too. Her hand-and-eye coordination and endurance had improved enough that she could join the raw beginners and hold her own. She’d still be 2 hands shorter and 2 stones lighter than most of them, but Hannah was getting tired of individual exercises and Melinda couldn’t in good conscience hold her back any more.

With Hannah gone and Akela soon-to-be gone as well, Melinda’s hodge-podge class would soon be just Phil and Skye. By all rights Skye should have been in a class two or three steps above the one Hannah had just joined, but her Gift scared her. She was afraid that the next time she got mad or upset, it would go rogue, things would start flying and someone would get hurt like when her Gift first awoke.

Phil and Dugan had tried to convince her that her training would hold, but she was resistant. Skye didn’t want to do any weapons training without Phil there to rein her Gift in if anything happened and Melinda had reluctantly agreed.

It was cute, watching Phil and Skye interact. Most of the time Phil treated her like his long-lost daughter, and most of the time Skye acted like his annoying little sister.

Right now Skye was behaving, working on the core-strengthening excises Melinda had set before her, but was only a matter of time before she’d get bored and flick something at Phil or otherwise pester him. To head her off, Melinda called her over and began a session of staff work. Melinda’s hits and blocks were at most half-strength and quarter-speed but Skye’s accuracy and strength were certainly improving.

At the end of the session Melinda had a candlemark before her next class. Normally she’d spend the time planning lessons for her next few classes, thinking about her pupils’ limitations and how best to address them. Today, unfortunately she had other plans. Prince Ward, Queen Hill’s intended, had politely requested her attendance at the guard training hall he’d taken over for his personal use.

Melinda didn’t trust Ward, and neither did Queen Hill’s Companion Angie or Melinda’s Steve, but no one could put their finger – or hoof – on quite why, so until Melinda figured out the reason for her uneasiness, she’d keep an eye on the Out-Kingdom Prince. And the Prince’s own invitation might prove to be an excellent opportunity to do just that.

After a moment’s consideration, Melinda left on the light boiled leather armor she wore for most of her classes but didn’t bring anything else. If Ward had a preferred weapon, she would borrow one, but she doubted he would have any armor in her size, let alone her preferred kind of light and flexible armor.

A few minutes walk brought her to the part of the palace grounds that contained the Guard’s barracks, training facilities, and mess. She was greeted by many of the guardsmen and women with a polite nod. On occasion she needed to let loose and would join the guards for some sparring. Slightly more frequently, a member of the guard would come to her salle for some one-on-one training.

She found the Prince’s training hall without hardship and watched him spar with one of his lackeys using blunted steel swords. The rest of his retinue cheered him on without offering any critique. Clearly he preferred the company of sycophants to that of people who might challenge him. She snorted in disgust at the thought.

She watched the bout carefully, learning all she could about the Prince’s strengths, limitations, and character a 3-minute bout could afford. The bout ended when the Prince “killed” his partner a third time. He was hardly winded and hardly a hair was out of place. Whatever else could be said for the Prince, he had stamina.

With that bout done, he noticed Melinda standing near the door. He saluted. Though the salute was technically correct there was something mocking about it too. Melinda ignored his derision and walked through the on-lookers to the center circle of the training hall.

“Weaponsmaster Melinda, I am happy you could make it.”

Melinda nodded.

“I see you’ve arrived unarmed. Would you like to borrow one of my men’s training blades?”

She nodded again, “Thank you, Prince Ward.”

After a few more polite statements dripping with hidden distain, courtesies had been completed and they faced off. Melinda knew she couldn’t afford to win his hatred by beating him in front of his men. She also knew she had to give a good showing or she’d have to deal with his distain, and more importantly, his distain for all those she’d trained. Her plan was to fight him to a draw, but let him leave the circle with his balls intact.

They saluted each other with their weapons and the fight was on.

As Melinda might have expected, Prince Ward fought straightforwardly and offensively, using his size and reach to his advantage. Melinda had fought against such men all her life. She met his strong, sweeping blows with blocks of equal strength and darted under his longer arms to deliver piercing strikes.

If the blade had an edge, then the wounds would have merely slowed Ward down. Then again, if the blade had an edge, then the fight would have been real, and she would have gone straight for the kidneys.

After maybe a minute of Ward attempting to bludgeon her into defeat, his style shifted, grew devious. He would feint left, slightly, and leave his right side open, slightly, attempting to trick her into overextending. Melinda pretended not to see these tricks, pretended that she was so by-the-books she didn’t even notice his ploys.

After another minute, Melinda grew tired of playing cat-and-mouse with this sly, overconfident mouse, and focused on an opening to end the charade. Just then she spotted it. She dove in, “accidentally” smashing her hilt against the Prince’s hand and sent both weapons flying into the crowd. The on-lookers parted and then applauded the draw.

: _Well played_ : Steve said.

Melinda bowed to Ward, who bowed back, rubbing his knuckles surreptitiously.

“Good bout, Weaponsmaster,” the Prince said.

“And to you too, Prince,” Melinda replied and withdrew.

: _That was perfect._ : said Steve : _Now Prince Ward will_ know _you’re fast and surprisingly strong, but by-the-books and he could beat you if he really exerted himself.:_

_:That was the plan,:_ Melinda replied shortly.

: _But we both know how well your plans turn out most of the time._ :

Melinda snorted. She left the training hall with another bow and returned to her own turf.


	4. Chapter 4

Phil shifted against Peggy’s warm mass, sitting at the edge of the Companion’s Grove. The sun was warm on his face but the chill spring breezes reminded him it was yet early in the season. Across from him sat Skye, resting against her Companion as well. 

He turned his second sight on her. Her aura was strong and steady, an earthy golden glow. She had improved substantially from that terrified street urchin of a moon ago. Though she still doubted her control in times of duress, she was adapting well to life at the Collegium. She had good friends among her classmates and even among the Blues as well. Two of her closest friends were an unlikely pair of Blues. They were both wicked smart, but otherwise as different as night and day.

Fitz was a lowborn bastard who was short-tempered and pessimistic. Jemma, heir to the Simmons barony, was friendly, cheerful, and optimistic. Fitz was likely the most brilliant Artificer in a generation, while Jemma loved plants, potions, and healing. She would have been an herb Healer’s apprentice, had she not been the Simmons’ only heir.

Teachers across the Collegium had a bet going as to whether or not they were truly Lifebonded. For their sakes, Phil hoped they weren’t. Lifebond or no, her family would _never_ accept him.

Phil placed an early flower, a tulip, on the ground in front of Skye. For some reason, her Gift worked much better on things of the earth -– plants, rocks, wood –- but today they were working on fine control not strength. For some reason, she responded much better to him than the actual official Fetching trainer who had returned weeks ago. After some arguing with Dean Victoria, it was decided that Phil could continue to be Skye’s mentor.

“Focus on the flower,” he said. “Lift it up smoothly to eye level.”

She was a little jerky at the beginning, the stem end rising faster than the blossom end, but then she compensated and it leveled out.

He pulled out another tulip and repeated the instruction. This was even more challenging. The first flower dipped and swayed as the second lurched upward, but eventually both flowers levitated calmly between student and instructor, as if that is what flowers were meant to do.

Phil added a third flower, a daffodil, which was easier than the second. And then another and another. Soon enough, Skye was ringed with a floating bouquet.

Phil ran out of flowers to add, and directed Skye to move them around each other in a dance-like pattern.

Slowly Skye grew more confident, a grin breaking out on her face, and the flowers moved faster and faster.

Phil smiled at her joy. She refused to talk about her life before she was Chosen, but it couldn’t have been easy. He just hoped she was able to recapture some of the simple joys of childhood.

Out of the corner of his eye Phil saw a Companion walking by. This alone wasn’t unusual, it **was** the Companion’s Grove and right next to the Companion’s Field, but it wasn’t just any Companion. It was Steve, with Melinda. _What was Melinda doing walking about the Companion’s Field?_

Phil shook his head and focused on Skye. Melinda had just as much right as they did to hang out with her Companion out here.

He directed, “Hold the daffodils stationary and weave the tulips between them.”

As the sun neared full noon, he called the lesson to a close. He knew she could control her gift; she just needed to realize it herself.

Phil, Skye, and their Companions walked back to the Collegium. Or well Phil and the Companions walked, Skye skipped holding the training bouquet tightly in one hand. Sometimes it was hard to tell she was only 12 years old and other times it was blindingly easy.

As they neared the main quad it was clear their timing was perfect. Trainees from the three collegia and Blues were rushing from classes to the dining halls.

Skye suddenly stopped, lurching back.

“What’s wrong?” Phil said rushing to catch up.

Skye pointed. Queen Hill in her sovereign’s Whites with gold trim and Prince Ward in dashing black clothes with emerald touches were weaving their way through the crowds.

Phil smiled, glad it was nothing to be concerned about.

Skye briefly caught Phil’s eye before dashing toward the Queen.

The Queensguard hardly spared a glance for the girl in Trainee Greys rushing the Queen.

Skye presented her flowers to the Queen. The Queen gifted her a rare smile in return. She’d had little reason to smile in the months since the death of her father, King Fury.

Skye raced back to Phil beaming.

Throughout the whole of lunch –- lamb stew, fresh bread, and early berries for afters -– Skye couldn’t stop talking about seeing the Queen, her smile, her clothes, her beau.

Mack, Triplett, and Phil shared amused smiles while listening politely. Lance pantomimed skipping around and falling in love until Bobbi smacked him on the back of his head. Sometimes the quartet acted older than their 17 or 18 years, and sometimes they didn’t.

After lunch they had class. The last year Heraldic trainees –- Mack, Triplett, Lance, Bobbi, and a few others –- and Phil had court etiquette. Skye had remedial reading and writing. She wasn’t the only Trainee in the class, but she hated feeling slow or backward.

After etiquette Phil had weapons training with Melinda, and certainly understood how Skye felt.

Phil was surprised to see someone other than Melinda waiting in the salle when he arrived. Since Skye had class it was supposed to be just Melinda and him. The young woman wore a Palace guard uniform, so **she** certainly didn’t need remedial lessons.

Phil scanned for Melinda and after he failed to find her, he stood uneasily near the guardswoman in silence.

After a few minutes the door to Melinda’s private chambers creaked open.

“Ah, Phil. You’re here. Good,” Melinda said before tossing a practice blade at him.

To his great surprise, Phil actually caught the blade. It was heavier than a normal wooden blade and heavier than he expected, but he didn’t drop it. After a few moments of exploration he saw a row of small holes where the light wood had been replaced with lead to better approximate a real blade. He had never used anything like it before.

Perhaps it was for the guardswoman? Perhaps she and Melinda would spar to show him what he’d never achieve?

Melinda walked over to the woman, acknowledged her with a soft “Piper” and handed her the other blade.

Then Melinda gestured them both into the circle.

Phil stared at her dumbfounded. _She couldn’t possibly mean for him to spar with the guardswoman!_

‘Piper’ stood in the circle doing some preparative stretches. Melinda gestured again.

 _Well,_ Phil supposed, _Melinda was his instructor so if she wanted to see him be slaughtered by a guardswoman, it **was** her prerogative. _

: _Just wait and see,:_ Peggy said.

He stretched and advanced toward his grave.

Once he settled, Piper saluted him and he returned the civility.

Melinda called out a defensive position and almost without conscious thought his body rearranged itself to that position.

Piper attacked. He deflected easily.

Melinda called out an offensive attack. Phil executed it. Piper deflected his attack, but not with embarrassing ease.

Melinda called out position after position and Phil’s body followed her instructions. Piper got in a blow or two, but then again so did Phil.

After maybe five minutes Melinda called the spar to an end.

Phil panted.

Piper shook his hand. Her handshake was firm, unmocking, and Phil could see sweat on her brow.

_She hadn’t just been playing along. He’d actually made her work a little!_

: _Told you,:_ Peggy gloated.

“Thank you for your assistance Guard Piper,” Melinda said as the woman left.

“Now Phil,” she turned to him. “Talk we must.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Now Phil,” Melinda turned to him. “Talk we must.”

_Great._

Phil stood waiting for Melinda to crush his belief that he’d gotten marginally better. She stood stalk still, staring at the ground, the only thing separating her from a statue was how she kept clenching and unclenching her left fist.

“Phil, there is no easy way for me to say this…” she paused.

“Piper was sandbagging it the whole time and I’ll never make it as a Herald and I might as well just give up now and stop wasting your time?” he babbled.

Melinda looked up at him sharply, “What? No.”

She took a breath, “This past moon well you have been doing. Far better than you believe. You’ve gotten to the point where you could hold off a bandit or two long enough to successfully flee –- if in yourself, you trusted. This whole thing I set up with Piper, to show you that you can do it. Piper may have been sparing at 90% speed, but that she does when sparing with me as well. It is one of the things I’m working on with her… she feels that is she goes a little slower, less likely to hurt a sparing partner she is.”

“But, enough about Piper. Phil, your glasses a liability will always be, but _now_ your pessimistic view of your own abilities, your biggest issue is. Does that like any other Trainee, sound?”

“Skye?”

Melinda’s raised eyebrow was answer enough.

Phil sat down leadenly on a nearby leather bench intended to help trainees get in and out of padded armor. _Wow_.

“Yeah…” Melinda said softly, likely only to herself.

Louder, she added, “Enough on your mind you have. My question I will ask later.”

Phil nodded his head absent-mindedly.

“No wait, ask me now. I can handle it.”

Melinda pursed her lips.

“This conversation is going to need a little… lubrication. Continue this in my quarters, shall we?”

Phil nodded and Melinda led the way.

Her quarters were fairly sparse, as he would have imagined, but it was different too. On the small rough-hewn table that seemed to serve as dining table, desk, and weapons maintenance station judging by the dirty bowl and spoon, papers, and oil rags, there was also a small cut glass vase with a few blossoms.

Everyone knew about her stained glass window –- it was impossible not to see it from the Companion’s Field -– but what you couldn’t see from the outside was that the raging, white-foam waves cast a soothing glow over the living area.

Melinda cleared some space at the table and gestured for Phil to sit. She rummaged around a cabinet and returned with a decanter of dark liquid and two small cups.

He’d been expecting cider, or at most wine, nothing quite so hard.

: _Do you know what’s going on?_ : He asked Peggy.

: _Not a clue_ :

Melinda poured a finger of the potent liquid into each cup and placed one before him. Then she sat, swirled the dark liquid and took a sip.

Phil watched her closely.

“It is important for you to know that I ask you here not as my Trainee, but as a future Herald.”

Phil nodded, though he was even more confused than before.

Phil took a sip. It was strong, and smoky, and burned on the way down.

“You hide from sight easily. People always over look you,” Melinda began.

“Gee, thanks.” Phil interjected dryly.

Melinda looked down at her drink, as if to gather courage from it.

“A complement I meant it as. Blending in, escaping notice, are great skills to have. Skills that are clearly denied to me.”

Phil nodded. Melinda would stand out in a crowd even if everyone in Haven didn’t already know that the slight Herald with silky black hair, golden skin, and foreign features was the Queen’s Champion and Weaponsmaster.

“I need your help.”

Phil choked on nothing at her admission.

“Me?”

Melinda nodded sharply, as if it pained her.

“Why me?”

“I need someone who escapes notice. Someone who would have purpose, mixing with the gentry, but be ignored by them. I need you.”

Melinda sipped her liquor. Phil followed suit. Thinking.

: _What do you think?_ ” he asked Peggy.

: _It certainly pained her to ask for help. You should learn more about what’s needed._ :

“Okay. What do you need? What is the mission?”

Melinda stared at her cup. “I don’t trust Prince Ward. Neither does Steve or Queen Hill’s Companion Angie. Something about him just is wrong. And how he showed up at just the right time as Queen Hill began to recover from her father’s death. It smells.”

Phil nodded, “But none of this is enough to bring to the Queen.”

“Exactly. That is why I need you.”

“To spy in the guise of a Palace scribe?”

Melinda nodded.

Phil’s third sip didn’t burn as much the previous two.

Melinda poured another finger into her cup and topped off Phil’s.

They sat in surprisingly companionable silence.

“Okay,” Phil said.

“Okay what?”

“Okay I will help you spy on the Prince to see what he’s up to.”

Melinda smiled. Phil felt a warmth build in his chest. This liquor must be even stronger than he’d thought.

Phil stayed for candlemarks planning with Melinda: who would get clothing appropriate for a Palace scribe -– Phil had served merchants and craftsmen, his old clothes wouldn’t suit -– that Melinda would get Phil excused from the rest of his classes for the duration of the mission, and how to properly establish Phil in the court.

Phil only left when the final dinner bell rang and even then with reluctance.


	6. Chapter 6

Phil screamed again.

He knew he’d be hoarse by the end of the game. It was Skye’s first Hurlee game as a starting player, so it’d be worth it.

Hurlee was as new game. It began a couple of weeks ago during one of Melinda’s advanced classes. Though it started as mounted combat training, it had advanced far beyond that.

Now there was a version played afoot in addition to the mounted version -– which was limited to Herald Trainees as even the most highly trained warhorse wouldn’t put up with a hard leather ball flying by her ears or her riders bending down with a hooked stick to send said ball flying.

On the ground or mounted, the games attracted quite a crowd. Some of the Blues, even some of the adult nobles, had become so entranced with the game they called themselves Hurlee fanatics and made a point to watch every game held on the Palace grounds. There was even some significant betting action, Phil had heard.

Phil was beginning to see why everyone was so enthralled by the game. It had the “us versus them” appeal and the thrill of battle without the lethal results. Sure, there had been a handful of broken bones, several concussions, and more bruises than you could count, but that was the extent of the injuries.

Both Melinda and the equestrian trainer, Natasha, loved the training it provided and many of the Herald Trainees couldn’t get enough of it. Mack, Triplett, and Bobbi were on one of the highest regarded teams. (Of course Phil wouldn’t dare embarrass himself by participating.)

Skye’s team consisted of younger Trainees, but they were all strongly Gifted. The original training exercise was no holds bared, and the Trainees and the Deans decided that only projective Empathy and FireStarting were too dangerous to use for Hurlee. One young Trainee, Robbie, set the ball on fire as the other team was trying to throw it through a goal basket and ended up scorched a Companion.

But regardless, Skye’s Fetching gift was a real boon to her team, and Phil was certain he had Hurlee to thank for Skye finally trusting in her own control. Skye could literally snatch the ball mid-air, bring it to her, and then throw it into the goal basket.

Skye’s teammate Elena had ForeSight, which was also useful. It allowed her to know what was going to happen a few seconds before it did, making it appear that she could move faster than sight, or possibly, stop time all together.

Melinda was refereeing the game and when the action moved to the other side of the field Phil began to study her.

Except for a few training sessions where she’d been punctiliously professional and hadn’t breathed a word about his undercover work, he hadn’t seen her since the afternoon she’d asked for his help.

Even though she’d been professional, there was something different about her behavior during their training sessions. It was almost impossible for Phil to put his finger on it, but it was almost as if she’d softened toward him. Almost. Of course she still kept him at the pells past his endurance, but she nodded and almost smiled at him at the end of the sessions.

Who was Herald Melinda? What did she want? What did she think of him?

She sent conflicting signals. At first he thought she despised him, thought him a waste of skin and especially her time. But now he wasn’t so sure. She had asked him to help her spy on the Prince consort-to-be and she wouldn’t have done that if she didn’t think he was capable. She wouldn’t have jeopardized her mission like that and there _had_ to be another Herald she could have asked.

On the other hand, now he was in place in the palace she didn’t want him to _do_ anything, just establish a persona and transcribe documents. Once, he would have thought she’d changed her mind about his abilities but now he wasn’t so sure. Maybe she was worried about him. _Maybe_.

Confusing recent behavior aside, Melinda was unlike any other woman Phil had ever met. She had such a strength of character, she knew exactly want she wanted and how to get it. Now Melinda wasn’t the only Herald with this mettle, but for some reason Phil felt she’d be the same even if she were a fishwife or farmer.

The crowd around him roared and Phil turned his attention away from the mysterious Melinda and back on the game. It appeared –- due to the screaming and back pounding of the players -– that Skye had stolen the ball from the other team, passed it Elena who had dashed it down the field and into the goal in a blink.

And he’d missed it!

: _Serves you right for mooning over Melinda,_ : chided Peggy.

He focused on the game and tried to put Melinda out of his mind. He was at least rather successful at the former.

He was watching the game intently when Alisha and another Trainee on the other team, Piper, rode into each other. Alisha fell sideways from the saddle –- a feat in and of itself as the saddle was Herald-style with a high pommel in the front and an even higher back -– and broke her arm.

The whole crowd stilled at that snapping-stick sound. Melinda paused only momentarily before dashing through the stunned Trainees. She helped Alisha sit up while the girl cradled her arm.

Shortly thereafter a dark skinned man in Healer Greens shoved his way through the crowd and joined Melinda and the girl.

He and Melinda shared a look and a few quick words before she tugged and straightened the girl’s arm and he entered a Healer’s trance. After a few minutes Alisha stood up, wan and unsteady, but Healed. Thankfully, Piper and the two Companions were unhurt.

As the Healer walked Alisha off the field, Phil wondered how much experience Melinda had setting breaks if she needed so little instruction.

The rest of the game was a little subdued. The Trainees were just a little bit more careful and at little bit more cognizant of their Companions and the other competitors.

Skye’s team won seven to five but they didn’t celebrate. Once the game was over they rushed to the Healer’s Hall. Melinda went too. She’d invented Hurlee -– accidentally but still –- she must feel responsible for every injury.


	7. Chapter 7

Phil stared at his ink stained hands. When Peggy Chose him, he was certain his days of squinting over barely legible documents trying to make a readable copy **and** bowing and scraping to pompous fools were at an end.

Sadly, he was wrong.

The sycophants Prince Consort Ward surrounded himself with expected the servants around them to efface themselves far more than most of Phil’s former customers among the craftsmen and traders, but were no better at spelling, penmanship, or even dictation.

Phil glared at the document detailing an exchange of three hundred bushels of wool for twelve wagonloads of seasoned wood.

: _When will I get to do something interesting, something important, something Herald-like?_ : he thought.

Peggy just chuckled at him.

He sighed and returned to his scribe work. Not a quarter candlemark later Prince Consort Ward walked into the little closet of an office the Palace Quartermaster had given Phil. Shit!

: _Ha! That’s what you get for wishing for important things to do!_ : Peggy said.

“Your majesty! How may I be of service?” Phil exclaimed, knocking his quill knife off the table while he bowed.

After a precisely planned and executed comedy of errors of picking up his quill knife, losing his glasses, retrieving his glasses, and almost knocking over his inkwell, Phil apologized profusely to the Prince Consort.

He could tell the Prince Consort had classified him as a buffoon, a fool, not a threat.

“Do you need to understand what you’re copying?” the Consort asked.

“Of course not. Three quarters of the legal documents in this country wouldn’t get copied if a scribe needed to understand what he was writing!” Phil joked.

Prince Consort Ward smiled a tight, fake smile and said, “Good. I need you to copy this letter onto this paper.”

He held up a practically transparent sheet of parchment: the thin, lightweight, extremely expensive paper mostly used for pigeon post.

“Of course your majesty!” Phil bowed again.

The Consort handed over the letter, paper, and a golden crown -– more than a common laborer would earn in ten years, and enough to buy a scribe’s service for a month.

“Your majesty, it’s far too much,” Phil protested.

Prince Consort Ward just winked and left.

: _Now what do I do?_ : he asked Peggy.

: _Start transcribing you fool!_ : she said.

: _But!_ :

: _First copy the letter onto normal paper, hide it, and then transcribe it onto Ward’s parchment_.:

Phil nodded, not that Peggy could see, and got to work.

The letter was in Rethwellan, which made sense since Ward had been a Rethwellan prince before he married Queen Hill, but it also seemed to be written in code. Unless, of course, feeding cheese to cats was pigeon-post-worthy news in Rethwella.

Phil laughed at himself and focused on the task at hand. He -– or maybe Melinda and him -– could decipher the letter later. Now he needed to make two fair copies quickly.

* * *

Phil looked up from the fifth copy of the wool-wood trade agreement –- damn both governments and their triplicate filing requirements –- when his door opened again.

“You majesty! I have your letter for you!” Phil made if to stand up, narrowly missing knocking over his inkwell again.

“Oh thank you, scribe, no need to get up,” Prince Consort Ward said. He grabbed the ultra-fine sheet and scanned it.

“You made a fine copy, scribe. Thank you.”

Phil beamed at his magnanimous praise.

Prince Consort Ward grabbed the original and scanned the tiny room. His inspection must have met with his approval as he nodded and tossed Phil a silver crown.

As expected, Phil protested this further overpayment and the Consort left without another word.

Phil waited ten breaths after Ward left and then let out a relieved sigh and unbuttoned his trousers. He had hidden the other copy of the letter rolled up in his trousers and it was rather uncomfortable.

Phil completed his cover’s work and cleaned up his desk. He was careful to return all the paper and ink to their places and neatly stack the completed documents.

It pained him.

He wanted nothing so much as to run to Melinda’s salle and share the letter –- the fruit of moons of drudgery -– with her as soon as possible, but Theo Tittle, his cover, was meticulous and any deviation from his routine could attract attention.

Obviously, dashing off to a Herald after transcribing something for the Prince Consort would be the end of Theo’s palace career, if not his life.

Once the workspace was sufficiently tidy, Phil slipped his copy of the letter into his stack of completed work and set off for the upper servants' quarters. Theo did in fact have a room there and Phil dropped off the other documents, changed into his Greys, and slipped out the hidden door in the closet.

Even once Theo Tittle had been set aside for Trainee Phil, he still did not dare rush to Melinda, as much as he wanted to. It was almost dinnertime and he would be missed. But first he returned to his real quarters and grabbed a book on military strategy to hide the letter in.

Book tucked under his arm, he scrubbed as much of the ink off of his hands as he could. The other Trainees thought he’d begun working for the Chief Chronicler, which would involve some writing and ink splatter but not quite that much.

After dinner and a few dropped hints of a military strategy assignment from the Chief Chronicler, Phil finally was able to head to Melinda’s salle.

“Hi Melinda, I need help with an assignment on analyzing the military strategy of King Fury’s final battle,” Phil said as soon as Melinda opened her door, in case anyone was listening in.

Melinda glowered slightly but opened the door for him.

Once they were in her quarters she asked, “What’s so important it couldn’t wait until our training session tomorrow!?”

In lieu of an answer, Phil opened the book and proudly displayed his copy.

“The Prince requested my services this afternoon.”

“No! You didn’t!”

“Yes, I did.”

“You could have been caught.”

“I was careful.”

“You couldn’t have been _that_ careful, you’re here, now!”

Now he was certain, Herald Melinda, stone queen, was concerned about _his_ safety.

He didn’t know what to say to that. His heart warmed with pleasure.

“I was careful, I promise, but you need to see this. It was written in code.”

Melinda glared a bit more and then took the outstretched document.

“Code, or another language,” she said.

“Both actually,” Phil said, “It’s written in Rethwellan and some sort of substitution cypher.”

“Oh,” Melinda said, her face scrunching up adorably.

Phil began translating the document and quickly Melinda’s face took on a different mien. After a few sentences of gibberish Melinda had Phil stop while she grabbed some paper and a graphite stick, and had him start again from the top.

He did so but couldn’t help but watch Melinda scratch out notes in distinctly angular handwriting. When he’d gone through the whole letter Melinda thought for a few moments and then hand him read off several stretches while she took even more notes.

“Hmmm,” she said.

“Hmmm?” He quirked an eyebrow.

“If I’m interpreting this correctly, Prince Consort Ward is planning on crossing off Queen Maria as soon as they have a child.”

“What!?”


	8. Chapter 8

“If I’m interpreting this correctly, Prince Consort Ward is planning on crossing off Queen Maria as soon as they have a child,” said Melinda, mouth sour at the idea.

“What!?” Phil exclaimed.

“Yes,” she continued, “Ward seems to have just realized that unless he’s Chosen, he’ll never be more than a Prince Consort and to get around this limitation he’ll kill Maria and serve as Regent for their child.”

Melinda watched as Phil sat down heavily.

“What can we do?”

Melinda set down her notes and grabbed her whisky. The rest of this conversation would need a little lubrication.

“As you know, the Queen is too infatuated to listen to reason, from us or from Angie.”

The Queen’s engagement without consulting any of her advisors or fellow Heralds and the rushed wedding held a mere two days after the end of the Queen’s official mourning period all spoke to her focus and determination.

Phil nodded.

Melinda poured them both a few fingers and continued, “However this honeymoon period is bound to end sooner or later, hopefully _before_ the Queen is with child or gives birth. You’ll continue your work, continue collecting these coded messages of Ward’s plans and when Maria sours on him we’ll have a whole stack of indisputable evidence of his treason.”

Phil nodded again.

“Meanwhile I will increase the Queen’s Guard and keep my ear out for whispers of the Prince Consort hiring mercenaries.”

“I know she’s protested her guard before.”

“True,” Melinda said. She rolled the last mouthful of whisky around and thought. “I’ll just have to think of some covert guards.”

Phil finished off his liquor as well. He stood up. Melinda could she the rage and determination burn in his eyes.

“What about this?” he indicated the copy of the coded letter.

“I’ll hide it somewhere safe and you will bring subsequent letters to me during our _normal_ training sessions.”

“Yes, Herald Melinda,” he said contritely.

She could tell he wasn’t the least bit sorry and snorted before shooing him away.

After Phil left, Melinda poured herself another glass of whisky and thought. _How could she guard the Queen without raising Maria’s ire and the Prince Consort’s suspicion?_

Steve was strangely silent.

She slipped the coded letter into a hidden drawer in her kitchen table and turned her mind to a slightly more tractable problem. How could she handle this Hurlee craze? Yes, it was good training but students were _obsessed_ with it. Other instructors could use suspending a Trainee from Hurlee practice as a powerful motivator but they weren’t the ones who had to keep visiting their ex in the Healer’s Hall to check on every Trainee injured by this stupid game.

These children weren’t ready for combat, that’s why they were still _Trainees_. If only she could restrict the game to those most prepared for it, if only she could turn this craze into something useful…

She took another sip of her treasured whisky.

What if she had special Hurlee training sessions for the best of the best? What if she trained those Trainees to guard the Queen? No one would suspect those teenagers, not even the Queen herself!

Steve returned to the conversation after letting Melinda know he’d been “away” informing Angie, Dean Victoria’s Companion, and few other key personnel of the contents of the letter, and Melinda’s idea.

They stayed up late planning out the details of how to turn a handful of Hurlee playing Trainees into surreptitious Queen’s Guards. By the time Melinda crawled into her bed they’d hashed out a list of potential Trainees, a two-fold cover story, and a list of needed equipment. It was a good start.

* * *

Melinda surveyed her rag-tag collection of Herald Trainees and their Companions.

Towering Mack with his agile Daniel, smiling Triplett with his solid Jack, ruthless Bobbi with her cunning Dottie, and silly Lance with his serious Edwin were all uncontroversial picks. They were in their last year of training, were well regarded on the Hurlee field, and all expected to end up riding circuit in the most dangerous areas.

Now Melinda had to argue her case on the last two Trainees: Lincoln and Elena. They were younger and not as formidable on the Hurlee field. However, Melinda felt they were old enough and their Gifts would be real boons if they could learn to perfect their use on the battlefield.

And all of the Companions were fully adult. Companions could go on Search when they reached the equivalent of their mid-teens, leading to some Trainee-Companion pairs being the same mental age. For this mission Melinda needed Companions that knew both layers of the cover story -– to protect the trainees –- and _that_ necessitated more mature Companions.

The Trainees and Companions began to shift restlessly under her gaze, “Okay Trainees, you know why you’re here, so show me what you can do.”

Lance raised his hand.

“Yes Trainee Lance?”

“Actually we don’t know why we’re here.”

Melinda stared at him silently until both his Companion and Bobbi ‘encouraged’ him to let it go.

First battle of wills over, Melinda wordlessly tossed the hard leather Hurlee ball to Triplett. Eventually she’d explain the new rules, but for now she wanted to see what these Trainees would do.

The trainees looked at each other and with a minimum of fuss they divided themselves into two equal teams of three: Bobbi, Mack and Lincoln versus Lance, Triplett, and Elena. They picked up their Hurlee sticks, mounted their Companions, and were off.

Melinda watched. They were following the Collegium’s rules in regards to using their Gifts and not aiming for Companions, but were otherwise looking pretty good. Mack and Bobbi weren’t afraid to team up against Elena when she had the ball, double-teaming her to reduce the effectiveness of her Gift, and Triplett’s Jack was unafraid of shoving the lighter Companions out of his way.

“Lance, you’re ref!” Melinda shouted and took his place in the melee. Sometimes the best way to teach was by example.

By the end of the match everyone was panting and glistening, including Melinda. Going easy on the Trainees now would do them no favors later on when they were needed to defend the Queen against Rethwellan riff-raff.

“Good job today Trainees,” Melinda began. “From now on, here you will meet each morning after breakfast for two candlemarks.”

“What about our morning classes?” Lance asked.

“Dean Victoria has changed your schedule. This ‘class’ your top priority is.”

The Trainees nodded and Melinda could see them start to put two and two together.

: _Don’t worry, their Companions will help them come to the ‘right’ conclusion,_ : Steve said.

Melinda patted him between the withers not wanting to consider how much harder this would be without the Companions and their special abilities.


	9. Chapter 9

Phil bit his lip trying to force himself to focus on the deadly dull will his was copying. It wasn’t just the content of the document that made it so difficult for Phil to focus, but also the fact that if Ward followed the schedule he’d been following the past three moons, he’d arrive any moment with yet another letter for “Theo” to copy.

Phil had forced himself to copy another two lines when his door flew open and Prince Consort Ward entered.

“It’s excellent to see you again, your majesty!” Phil exclaimed, continuing his sycophantic buffoon act.

Ward nodded tightly and practically threw his letter at Phil. He’d long ago provided the scribe with a stock of the special ultra-thin parchment.

Phil bowed and scraped and set the will aside. Atypically, Ward did not leave, but stood, watching.

: _Peggy!_ : Phil called, : _Get the Dean or Melinda, the Prince isn’t going to leave._ :

: _On it_.:

Phil played for time, offering to clear off a spot for the Prince, in his customary bumbling manner, but Ward tersely declined.

: _Ready,_ : Peggy informed him.

Phil translated the letter, thinking loudly at Peggy as he began to copy it. He didn’t bother trying to break the code. He could only do so much at once. He did notice it was far shorter than usual.

Once he was done, he set aside his quill and fanned the ink dry.

Ward snatched the half-dry document and the original from the desk and tossed Phil a silver crown on his way out. He didn’t waste his breath thanking the scribe.

: _What the heck was that?_ : Phil asked Peggy.

: _According to the cypher, the Queen is with child. Melinda is confirming this with her contact in the Healer’s Hall. Steve will let us know if it’s true._ :

Phil couldn’t do anything beside stare at the flickering flames in his desk lamp. If it was true… well hopefully Melinda and the other Trainees were ready if it was true.

Phil stared into the flickering lamp, hardly daring to breathe.

: _It’s true._ : Peggy said.

Phil’s stomach churned. It had only been a few moons. He’d thought they’d have more time. His palms grew damp.

Peggy was silent, unable to offer any reassurance.

Phil spiraled, unable to stop himself from considering all of the possibilities and eventualities. He lost all track of time going down the rabbit hole of the Queen’s death, subtly fighting the Regent until the Prince or Princess was of age, and all the harm Prince Ward could wreck as Regent.

: _Phil!_ : Peggy shouted in his mind. : _Snap yourself out of it. It’s dinnertime and_ this _isn’t doing anyone any good._ :

Phil apologized but Peggy just put him off.

: _I understand you can’t control it, but you have to continue with your routine. And besides we have at least seven moons until the prince or princess is born and Ward is smart enough to know not to eliminate the Queen_ right _after she gives birth. It would be too suspicious. Trust Melinda._ :

Phil nodded and gathered his things. He could trust Melinda to train the Trainees and protect the Queen.

* * *

“Faster Daniel! Lincoln don’t hold back. This isn’t a game, this is a battle for life and death!” Melinda shouted.

The Trainees battled brutally on the field. They all wore boiled leather armor with thin plates of steel discreetly sown between the layers. The Companions all had similar light barding including crinets and peytrals to protect their vulnerable necks and chests. Melinda would never forget the neck blow that took out Bucky and then King Fury.

The Trainees’ Hurlee sticks were steel-plated, sturdy enough to parry a long sword or break bone.

“Okay Trip, you’re ref now.”

Melinda and Steve were outfitted the same as the Trainees and took Triplett and Jack’s place. Lincoln was still hesitant to use his FireStarting Gift, but now that the whole country knew the Queen was with child he’d run out of time. He needed to learn to be comfortable with it _now_ so he could use it quickly and effectively when he needed it.

As soon as Lincoln got the ball Melinda was on him like a fly on a pile of Companion droppings. Steve shoved Gabe and Melinda thwacked Lincoln’s Hurlee stick, hoping to dislodge the ball.

Instead, time slowed as Lincoln flew from the saddle, stick and ball going one way, his body going another.

It was only Steve’s battle-tested reflexes that stopped him from shoving Gabe on top of his rider.

Melinda winced at the unnaturally loud snap of breaking bone. In the space of a breath Melinda was on the ground, beside the Trainee.

He looked at her, his pupils the lopsided indicator of a concussion, and said, “I’m sorry Weaponsmaster.”

Melinda’s stomach unclenched. She hadn’t killed another child.

No, she’d only given him a concussion and a broken arm given the way he was holding himself.

“Go get Healer Andrew,” she shouted at the stunned onlookers. She picked out Jemma –- who’d clearly been dragged to watch the training by Skye. “Tell him we’ve got at least a concussion here, too dangerous to transport.”

Jemma nodded and dashed off toward the Healer’s Collegium.

Melinda stopped Lincoln from taking off his helm, but helped him sit up to take the pressure off his broken arm and injured clavicle.

Vaguely, she noticed some of the other Trainees helping Gabe to the Companion’s field. He was limping on three legs, but thankfully Companions handled such injuries far better than the horses they looked like.

Moments and eons later Andrew ran onto the field and squatted down beside Melinda and Lincoln. He closed his eyes and his breathing calmed to practically non-existent. He was in a healer’s trance.

Melinda focused on calming her own breath, not wanting to distract Andrew.

After a few minutes Andrew’s eyes opened and he nodded at Melinda.

“I’ve stabilized him now, but he won’t be able to play for at least a moon, likely six weeks.”

Melinda nodded and watched in a daze at Andrew and a Healer Trainee started walking Lincoln off the field and to the Healer’s Collegium. Concussions had no simple fixes and Heralds had been known to permanently lose Gifts if they tried to use them too soon after one.

Self-recrimination and anger filled Melinda. She glared at the grass in front of her.

“Weaponsmaster?” a soft voice intruded.

“What?”

“You’re going to need someone to take Lincoln’s place until he’s recovered…” Skye said.

Melinda looked up at her in shock, “You just saw me seriously wound Lincoln, maybe even costing him his Gift forever, and you want to take his _place_?”

Skye nodded resolutely despite the hint of fear in her eyes.

: _It’s not a bad idea,_ : Steve said. : _She’s finally got her Gift under control and trusts herself. She might be younger than the others, but Dugan is a sturdy, powerful stallion and she sticks to him like a burr._ :

: _Fine._ :

“Very well. We’ll give you a tryout.”

“Yes!” Skye exclaimed and gave Melinda a hug.

Melinda blinked, astonished, and then hugged the girl back. She was so slight it seemed wrong to put her into battle, but girl had regularly watched the practices, knew the hard work involved, and saw the worst accident they’d had. She might be young enough to think she was immortal, but at least she knew the accidents that could happen.

Skye skipped off, likely to tell her friends the “good news” and Melinda just shook her head. She needed a drink. Too bad it wasn’t Phil’s day for lessons.


	10. Chapter 10

Phil was squinting over a 200-year-old manuscript in a special part of the Collegium Library reserved for the Archivist when bells starting tolling. It wasn’t the Death Bell, thank goodness; he’d already lived through _that_ once and if he never had to hear and feel that again it would be too soon.

Phil turned to the Archivist. Since he graduated a few moons ago, he’d been spending most mornings with the Archivist while continuing his undercover work in the afternoons.

The Archivist answered his questioning look, “The Queen is in labor. We’ll have a heir presumptive by nightfall.”

_Well shit._

_:Now what?:_ He asked Peggy.

_:We wait.:_

Deciphering supply requests to long-dead Quartermasters wouldn’t be able to hold his attention anymore, but he needed to try. His next session with Melinda wasn’t until tomorrow morning and by then they should have a new Prince or Princess. By then perhaps he’ll be ready to face the next stage of their plan.

_Ugh! Why did this outpost need 14 pigs and three casks of wine?_ Phil hoped the Quartermaster rejected the request.

* * *

“Hello. Seeking a treatise on siege warfare, I am.”

Phil stood up bolt upright at the sound of Melinda’s voice. _What was she doing here?_

“I think there’s an interesting manuscript somewhere near that table,” the Archivist said, pointing at Phil’s table.

Phil’s mind blanked. He wasn’t supposed to interact with Melinda outside the salle!

“Thank you,” Melinda said.

The Archivist disappeared into the supply closet and shut the door.

Phil stuttered out some combination of syllables that could be taken as a greeting.

“Morning Phil,” Melinda slumped into his now-vacant chair.

Melinda’s defeated look was exactly what he needed to kick his brain awake. “What happened? Is Maria…?”

The Death Bell hadn’t rang, but childbed was so risky.

Melinda looked up, “Maria is fine. For now.

“I’ve trained these kids hard. I’ve sent more than one of them to the Healer’s, but now it’s time to put them to the real test. I don’t think they’re ready.” Melinda set her head on his desk.

Phil ached to see the normally firm and confident woman like this.

“You’ve taught those Trainees for almost a year now. I’ve watched them and they’ve improved so much due to your instruction. Have you seen Bobbi wield her stick? It’s amazing! In fact, most of them would be out riding circuit right now if they weren’t still needed here.”

Phil dared to place his hand on Melinda’s shoulder. “You need to stop thinking of them as kids. You’ve turned them into warriors!”

Melinda lifted her head from the desk and turned to face him. She looked incredulous.

“It’s true. Have you watched them walk around the Collegium? For the first moon or so after you started training them, they strutted around like they were the kings and queens of the Palace. Not that Queen Hill has ever strutted. Now they walk with true, unassuming confidence. Like you. They keep an eye on every exit and entrance, they scope out every possible weapon. Like you. They **are** ready.”

The Palace bells began to toll once more.

Melinda got that faraway look in her eye indicating she was talking with Steve.

_:The Queen has given birth to a boy. She has named him Peter,:_ Peggy said.

“They better be ready now,” Melinda said. “Prince Peter has been born.”

Phil nodded, “They are.”

Melinda sat up straight and surveyed the room. “So this is where the Archivist works.”

Phil smiled and gave Melinda a tour of his workspace. The distraction would be good for her, for them both, and the Archivist still hadn’t returned.


	11. Chapter 11

“Come on Mack, use that reach of yours to snag the ball from her!” Melinda yelled.

As she turned to coach Elena, a frisson of pure terror sizzled up her spine. It was Angie. It was the Queen.

The field and trainees were silent. Whether Angie had broadcast her terror to everyone, or if their Companions had translated it, it didn’t matter. It was go time.

Melinda launched herself up over Steve’s haunches into the saddle and shouted, “To me!”

She was pleased that the Trainees brushed off their terror so quickly and followed Steve. She was less pleased at the signals her body was conveying. She shouldn’t have mounted Steve like that; she was no spring chicken anymore.

_Oh well, she’ll deal with the consequences tomorrow, if there was a tomorrow._

The seven Companions were halfway to the Home Farms when the Palace bells began to ring. _Good, reinforcements won’t be too far behind._

Then there was a break in the trees and Melinda saw it: Four of the Prince’s sycophantic followers and the Prince himself were circling the Queen. Angie’s deadly hooves were keeping them back, for the moment.

“For the Queen!” she cried, steel-plated Hurlee stick aloft.

Three or four of Steve’s long strides later she was in the fray and didn’t have time to do more than send a brief prayer for her students.

One of the nobles swung at her, she parried his blow and brought her stick down hard on his sword arm. She heard a satisfying snap and pivoted to face a new opponent.

* * *

Phil was in Theo’s office when he felt Angie’s fear.

He was halfway through the Palace, shouting that the Queen was under attack when he realized he could have been somewhat more circumspect. Oh well, Theo Tittle’s Palace career was over.

To the sound of the Palace bells ringing warning, he made it to the Healer’s Hall, still shouting.

He slid around the corner to see Healer Andrew and a handful of others gathering supply bags and calling for mounts.

A quick thought later and Phil’s shout changed, “The unbonded Companions are on their way. Come. She’s in the forest by the Home Farms.”

* * *

Melinda’s world narrowed to the opponent in front of her and the allies beside her.

They had managed to get between the Queen and her attackers and severely injure two of them but the rest fought viciously. There was no coming back from attacking the Queen in front of witness, no excuses, no return to grace.

Steve shoved the horse in front of them hard while Melinda parried the rider’s sword, intending to recreate the attack that decommissioned Lance. It worked. The sycophant went flying.

The opponent who took his place was Ward himself. Rage filled her with inhuman strength. Steve charged.

From their sparing session, Melinda knew he was strong and devious. From the sparing session she knew he’d think she was quick but amazingly by-the-books.

She brought her stick down on his shoulder, but he darted away. He slashed at her chest. Melinda didn’t feel any pain through the battle rush, but that didn’t mean he didn’t get her. She needed to end this fight quickly. She wished she had an edged weapon.

* * *

Phil held tight to Peggy’s neck, willing her on.

In front of him he could make out the dust cloud of the second wave of Heralds and Palace Guards, he hoped. Behind him he heard the hoof-falls of the Healers. Directly behind him he felt Jemma’s panicked grip.

She had happened to be in the Healer’s Hall when the alarm bells rang, and Phil didn’t have the heart to turn down her pleading. Skye was her friend too and she knew enough Healers’ craft to be useful once the battle ended.

There was a break in the trees and Phil could make out a riderless Companion rearing over a bloodied form that could only be the Prince.

The Prince grabbed a long dagger. It shone in the sun. He was going to plunge it into the Companion’s chest!

“No!”

* * *

“No!”

Melinda turned at the sound of Phil’s cry. There were not one but at least two clusters of reinforcements charging down from the Palace. But what was Phil shouting about.

She turned her attention to the battle in time to see a dagger fly from the Prince’s hand into Skye’s. Steve finished him off with a skull-crushing stomp.

The battle actually finally over, she returned to the Queen who’d been unhorsed and bruised. Melinda was overjoyed it wasn’t worse. She helped her stand and then surveyed the battlefield. The two traitors who were merely severely injured were under guard and the first wave of reinforcements had arrived.

This would be the last time she’d count an enemy with a broken sword arm, a shattered pelvis, and a gut wound as ‘out.’ If it weren’t for Skye’s Gift, her day would have ended much differently.

As she steadied the Queen –- who had a sprained if not broken ankle -– Phil rode up to them and launched himself at her.

“Gods and Goddesses! Thank goodness you’re all right.” He all but squeezed the breath out of her.

Melinda returned his fervent hug.

Healer Andrew led the Queen away from them for real tending.

Melinda released Phil. Slowly he followed suit. She could see the somewhat masked reluctance in his face.

She grabbed his cheeks and brought his face down to hers. She paused a mere fingerbreadth from his lips, staring into his eyes.

His eyes were wet with some emotion but soon all thoughts of analysis vanished.

His warm, soft lips were against hers. He slipped his soft, ink-stained fingers into her hair. Heat shot through her belly. She trembled with passion.

A piercing whistle lanced through the air. “You go Phil!” Skye cheered.

They pulled away from each other like youths caught fumbling in the barn. Melinda knew she was flaming but she couldn’t bring herself to regret the very public act. _Goddess above, she’d wanted to do that for moons_!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is. All that's left is the epilogue. If you found this fic and liked it, if you've been subscribed since day one, drop me a line and tell me what you liked!


	12. Epilogue

It was done. Ward was dead. Queen Hill and the kingdom were safe. And yet Phil still found himself trudging through spring mud fields to get to Melinda’s salle.

This time it wasn’t for weapons lessons. This time he was heading to the salle to celebrate, and maybe continue that phenomenal kiss they’d shared in the forest, but he didn’t want to be presumptuous.

Maybe Melinda didn’t feel the same way he did. Maybe the kiss was just her way of letting off steam after an adrenaline-fueled battle. Maybe it meant nothing to her.

: _Stop being such a mope,_ : Peggy said. : _She_ invited _you over._ :

Phil shrugged. : _Maybe she just wants to be friends_.:

Peggy snorted at him and blocked his thoughts, her oh so subtle way of saying he was being far too stupid to talk to.

Phil paused momentarily outside the salle, smoothing down his hair and sorting out his Whites. He knocked.

Mere seconds later, Melinda opened the door. “Hey Phil. Thanks for coming over.”

Phil could feel himself flush. “Of course.”

They stood awkwardly outside the salle for eons.

“Um come on in,” Melinda stepped back from the door.

Phil had been to Melinda’s rooms within the salle more than any other Trainee, but this time was different, special. He wasn’t entering as a Trainee, or even a co-spy, not this time.

On the fateful table, around which they first learned of the threat to Maria’s life, stood the same glass decanter of whisky and two glasses.

Melinda handed him one. “To Queen Maria.”

They clinked glasses and drank to Maria.

“To Skye,” Phil proposed.

Melinda nodded solemnly and they toasted Skye.

“To us?” Melinda said softly, her eyes scanning him, watching his reactions.

The slight queasiness in Phil’s stomach vanished. She wanted this too.

He smiled broadly, relieved. “To us!”

After he swallowed the mouthful of liquid fire, he set down his glass and walked toward Melinda.

The right corner of her lips pulled upward, amounting to what would be a broad grin for anyone else. She set down her glass.

He wrapped his hands around her slim, powerful waist and bent down to kiss her. Her lips were soft and cool, and they burned like the whisky they’d been drinking.

Her hands ghosted along his cheeks before wrapping around his head and pulling him down, deepening the kiss.

Her tongue burned like whisky and was just as graceful and demanding as she was.

He tugged on her waist, lifting her up to ease the crick in his neck. She wrapped her strong legs around him, pressing upon a rather insistent portion of his anatomy.

He groaned.

Melinda tore her lips from him and panting for breath asked, “Want… you to… bedroom… go?”

Another whisky-soaked kiss was the only answer Phil thought necessary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this Fandom Trumps Hate work! If you regularly follow my Philinda fics, I will return to The Ox and the Tiger shortly.


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